


Il Faut Nous Pardonner Les Choses (We Must Be Forgiven Things)

by delires



Series: Symbolism [1]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Frottage, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-22
Updated: 2011-04-22
Packaged: 2017-10-18 12:25:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/188872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delires/pseuds/delires
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one with the French poetry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Il Faut Nous Pardonner Les Choses (We Must Be Forgiven Things)

At night, the broad streets of Paris feel thick with anticipation. Between the wide-set buildings hang chunks of starlit sky, making the city seem open, as though it is waiting for something to happen.

There is nowhere to hide here. There is so much space. People watch everything.

Arthur sits in a bar in Le Marais, which is low-lit and full of murmurs, a place he has been to before, but which has changed over the last couple of years. It is quieter now than it used to be, when he was a student and Cobb’s latest find and Mal used to bring him here to show him off to her friends.

Mal, calling him ‘chéri’ and pressing Chanel-scented kisses against his cheeks and saying, “Dom is so boring. Don’t we have much more fun without him?” when Arthur knows that what Mal wants more than anything is for Dom to leave Miles’s office early tonight, and walk through the door. Sit down at their table.

Some things never change. Dom is still working too late.

Even now, with Mal radiantly pregnant, Dom is always working. Mal says, “Sometimes I think that the only time he ever honestly _sees_ us any more is when we are together in dreams.”

As Arthur sits alone, far from the office where Dom and Miles are hunched over a desk papered with blueprints, he thinks that Mal might be right.

“You have to stop,” Dom tells him, so often. Arthur is always being asked to stop. He must stop making his architecture so linear. He must stop indulging Mal’s love of frequenting the shady cafes of Montmartre. He must stop being so rude, talking down to the people they hire, whom Arthur rarely trusts.

But Dom never stops for anyone, not for Mal and certainly not for Arthur.

This is why they are here, in Paris, with a job that is too big for them and a plan which is steadily unravelling, going loose and frayed at its seams.

The martini in Arthur’s hand is not strong enough to soothe the sense of impending doom he feels.

When a man sits down in the empty chair at Arthur’s table, Arthur’s first foolish thought is ‘Dom’, before he looks properly and realises he is looking at a stranger.

Another martini glass is sitting beside his own.

The man smiles, lips closed, no teeth. His intent is unmistakeable.

“You look lonely,” the man says, in French, his voice smoky.

“I’m not,” Arthur replies coolly, also in French. Four short syllables, ‘ _je ne suis pas’._

Arthur slides his fingers around the delicate stem of his glass and prepares himself to leave, because French men are nothing if not persistent and Arthur is too strung-out tonight to fend advances off for long.

Unexpectedly, the man leans back in his chair, his mouth cracking into an honest grin.

“You’re American,” he says, in English this time, and Arthur is momentarily bewildered.

“You enunciate your French too clearly is all. It gives you away,” the man explains, seemingly able to read the expression on Arthur’s face like it is made out of words. As the man speaks, Arthur notices that his accent exactly matches Arthur’s own, with its drawling vowels and clipped consonants.

“You in Paris on business?” the man asks, his posture loose now. He settles his broad shoulders against the back of his chair and plucks the toothpick casually out of his glass. He curls his tongue around the olive.

Arthur nods, once.

The man chews on his olive, shrugging a little when Arthur does not take the opportunity to elaborate. 

“I’m a lecturer at Paris Sorbonne. Literature. French Symbolism, mostly,” he says.

His expression is open, friendly.

Arthur clears his throat. He finds it hard nowadays to tuck his professionalism away. Upholding conversation with somebody outside of his industry has become like trying to speak a foreign language one used to know well but has not had the opportunity to use in too long. The skill has languished and grown rusty. Now Arthur has to carefully translate word by word, consciously constructing each thought into a sentence before he can give it voice.

“That’s Baudelaire,” Arthur says. “Rimbaud. Those guys. Right?”

“Very good,” the man says. He looks impressed. He tips his chin down to peer at Arthur more closely through his glasses.

“I took a French Lit module in college,” Arthur explains.

“Did you?”

The man blinks hard and shakes his head slightly, as though coming to his senses, before extending one hand to Arthur across the table.

“I’m sorry,” he says, with a smile. “Let’s do this politely. I’m Arthur.”

Arthur does not look at the man’s hand. The stem of his glass slips between his fingers, as they tighten reflexively. A suspicious prickle runs the length of his spine.

“Your name is Arthur?” Arthur says.

The man smiles sheepishly.

“Arthur Brelan. I know. It’s ironic, right?” he says.

Arthur is not sure how to respond to this. One hand falls automatically to his hip, fingers groping for a gun which exists only when he dreams. The movement makes the stranger look uncertain.

“Arthur Rimbaud?” he says. “Same name as the man whose work I’ve been obsessed enough with to write multiple books about? My students think I made it up. Like I’m geeky enough to actually change my name. Most of them call me Brelan. I don’t think they want to indulge any delusions I might have.” Brelan smiles uncertainly.

If this is a story, it is a passable one. Arthur pulls his hand away from his hip and puts it to use shaking Brelan’s hand. Arthur’s handshake is succinct, always businesslike.

“I’m Charles,” Arthur lies, falling back on Dom’s favourite alias.

Brelan chuckles.

“Like Baudelaire,” he says, as he releases Arthur’s hand.

“I guess so, yeah,” Arthur says.

“There’s a coincidence. When Arthur met Charles,” Brelan says, smiling.

Arthur gives him a tiny smile back, a gesture of acknowledgement rather than amusement.

“So, _Charles_ ,” Brelan says with some delight, turning the name over in his mouth as though it is a complete novelty. “And be careful what you say here, because I cannot be held responsible for my actions if someone is to insult my life’s work. Did you enjoy your module?”

Arthur had enjoyed it. He had written gleeful essays about the musicality of Verlaine and the versification of Baudelaire. He had sat at his desk, with pages of Rimbaud fluttering in his hands, letting the fluid syllables roll from his tongue until he knew them by heart and could feel their weight settling inside of him.

His Symbolism class was where he had met Mal, which was how he had met Dom, which was how he had met his calling. Arthur had more than enjoyed it.

But he shrugs.

“It was better than some of my others,” he says.

“Well,” Brelan grins, his teeth gleaming white in the shadows. “That’s not entirely negative, is it? Guess I won’t have to kill you with my bare hands after all.”

Arthur actually cracks a smile at this, because when it comes to killing people with your bare hands, Arthur is certain that this man does not even know the half of it. 

They sit in the bar for an hour. Brelan is utterly engaging. His grey eyes flash behind his glasses as he regales Arthur with stories of what the bar used to be like in his own student days, before he was a lecturer and before research began to mean little more than paycheques. He quotes Racine, ‘ _ne puis-je savoir si j'aime, ou si je hais?’, ‘Can I not know if I love or if I hate_?’, and explains why he believes this sentiment to be at the root of all passion. He catalogues his favourite American beers and exactly what he misses about each one. He talks about Star Wars and baseball and the California coastline.

He insists on paying for another round of drinks.

It is close to closing time when Brelan returns from the bar with more martinis. Arthur studies his watch and thinks about the nine o’clock meeting he has promised to Dom the next morning. But Brelan has a beautiful mouth and muscular shoulders which shift fluidly beneath his jacket as he moves to hand Arthur his drink.

Although Arthur can recall every stage of his journey to the bar, there is still something about this whole encounter which reeks of dreaming. Brelan’s eyes gleam as though he knows things which he has no right knowing. It is precisely this which draws Arthur in.

Arthur has an urge to lean across the table and pull the glasses from Brelan’s face, just to see him without them.

“You know, you really don’t seem like the academic type,” Arthur finds himself blurting, as Brelan settles himself in his chair again.

Brelan raises an eyebrow, pulling a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket. 

“Ah non?” he says, smirking around the French. “What _do_ I seem like?”

Arthur wants to say _you seem like something more familiar_ , but he shakes his head instead.

Brelan lights a cigarette without asking Arthur’s permission because they are in Paris and the air in the bar is already so saturated with smoke that one more cigarette will hardly make a difference. However, he does leave the packet open on the table, where Arthur can help himself if he chooses. Brelan exhales a blue rush of smoke out of the corner of his mouth and then trails his fingers around the flat base of his martini glass, eyes cast down.

“Did you ever come across a poem of Rimbaud’s, _Le Dormeur du Val_?” he asks. “It means, _The Sleeper-_ ”

“ _Of the Valley_ ,” Arthur cuts in, a little sharply, watching the glowing tip of Brelan’s cigarette. “I can translate, thank you.”

Brelan seems unconcerned by Arthur’s tone. He taps his cigarette over the ashtray at his elbow.

“Do you know it?” he says.

Arthur has not smoked in years. He licks his lips and tries not to look at the cigarette packet, still propped invitingly open on the table. He fixates on the square line of Brelan’s jaw instead.

“Yeah. It’s the one with the soldier, isn’t it? The guy in the poem finds a sleeping soldier and goes on about how peaceful he looks before he realises that the soldier’s not asleep at all. He’s dead.”

“ _Il a deux trous rouges au côté droit_ ,” Brelan recites.

“Right. _He has two red holes in his right side_ ,” Arthur says, distracted, and then can’t help himself any more. He reaches out and takes the lit cigarette from Brelan’s hand. Brelan gives it up without a fight, watching as Arthur nestles the cigarette between his own lips and hollows out his cheeks on the inhale.

“So it’s about perception,” Brelan says, voice low. “How we don’t always perceive things correctly.”

Arthur rotates the cigarette between two fingers, with the grace of old practice. He hands it back to Brelan. When Arthur exhales, his nerves are steady.

“Can I be blunt?” Arthur asks.

“By all means.” Brelan gestures an invitation with one hand.

“When you first sat down here, you looked very much like you were trying to pick me up,” Arthur says. “Is that me perceiving things correctly? Or do you genuinely wish to discuss your own area of expertise with a stranger who knows next to nothing about it?”

Brelan runs the tip of his tongue over his top teeth, beneath his lip. He drags his eyes down the length of Arthur’s body and smirks a little.

“My apartment is a block away,” Brelan says.

Arthur swallows the rest of his martini.

“Fine,” he says, and stands up.

 

* * * * *

Brelan’s apartment is bright, polluted by moonlight. He doesn’t bother to switch on the lights. Arthur can make out the regimented lines of bookcases and the rounded bulk of a leather sofa without difficulty. Vague music, from the cafe below, filters up through the floorboards. The words are muffled but the baseline is clear and, as Brelan crowds Arthur back against the wall, Arthur can feel the dull pulse of drums vibrating through the wallpaper.

Brelan doesn’t kiss him right away. They stand close for a moment with their eyes lowered and their lips parted, just breathing.

Eventually, Arthur reaches up and pulls Brelan’s glasses carefully away from his face. Brelan takes them from him, tucking them safely away into his pocket. When he leans a little closer, Arthur meets him halfway, their mouths dragging full and slick against each other.

They kiss lazily, unhurried. The music keeps vibrating through the wall. There is no rush.

Arthur smoothes his hands down the planes of Brelan’s chest, unfastening buttons as he meets them. Shadows of solid muscle are printed over Brelan’s body and that sense of familiarity is back, in the undertones of Brelan’s cologne perhaps, or in the taste of tobacco as his tongue slides deeper.

Parting Brelan’s shirt reveals the dark lines of tattoos curving around each of his shoulders, unexpected beneath the cornflower blue cotton. Arthur catches just a glimpse of the designs before Brelan’s hips flex against his own and his eyes slip closed again.

He runs his fingertips against Brelan’s bare collarbones, tracing the shape of them, and Brelan makes a deep, earthy noise at the back of his throat. He presses into the touch of Arthur’s hands, suddenly heavier, muscles rolling, his leg grinding up between Arthur’s and his erection solid against Arthur’s thigh.

Their mouths come apart with the shock of sudden friction and they gasp one another’s air.

“You’re so hot,” Brelan says. His lips are swollen.

Arthur hates unnecessary talk. Compliments always sound so ridiculous.

“Shut up,” he hisses. He tugs Brelan close again, kissing him without finesse whilst scrabbling with the fly of Brelan’s jeans.

Brelan makes short work of Arthur’s belt buckle and things get suddenly urgent as Arthur feels a dry palm wrap around his cock, a thumb rubbing rough across the tip. His body jerks at the touch and he bites down hard into Brelan’s lip, feeling Brelan flinch against him, hearing his little grunt of pain.

The pleasure sparking through Arthur’s veins makes his movements clumsy. His strokes keep stuttering. But Brelan’s dick is perfect in his hand, heavy and solid, easy to work. The tendons twitch and quiver at Arthur’s uneven touch.

Arthur’s insides clench, his breath catching at the back of his throat as Brelan’s mouth moves around his flesh, dipping and pulling.

The music from the cafe has stopped. Arthur can hear nothing but the _thud_ _thud_ of the blood pacing his veins and the _slick slick_ rhythm of Brelan’s mouth.

His fingernails grate against the wallpaper, searching for purchase, finding none. The muscles in his legs are trembling.

Brelan is good at this. He knows how to seal in the pressure and twist his tongue just so. Arthur’s shirt has somehow become bunched at his elbows and now Brelan’s hands claw upwards over Arthur’s bare skin, his fingers digging in against Arthur’s ribs, pressing the bones out of shape.

Arthur lets his head fall back against the wall. His nerves are singing and distracted fragments of poetry are echoing around his skull. _Mes étoiles au ciel avaient un doux frou-frou_ , Arthur thinks. _My stars rustled softly in the sky._

When Brelan swallows, his throat opening around Arthur and drawing him further in, Arthur’s knees buckle. He has to grab into Brelan’s hair and pull his head back, because it is too soon. _Tu te fondais à lui_ , Arthur’s mind recites, his mouth moving silently to the shape of the words. _You melted into him._

And then all at once, Brelan is on his feet again, tugging Arthur’s fingers free from his hair and pressing those lips against Arthur’s, his kiss musky and salty-sweet. Arthur snatches one of Brelan’s wrists, pulls it to his face and bites the junction between Brelan’s wrist and hand, feeling veins pulse against his lip. He licks long across Brelan’s palm with the flat of his tongue and then guides Brelan’s strong hand downwards, curling their fingers together around both of their dicks which are already nudging into one another between their stomachs. Flesh slides against flesh, the friction velvety, and Arthur is clinging to Brelan’s shoulder with his free hand, gripping so hard that he can feel his nails biting into the flesh. Brelan groans into Arthur’s mouth, so Arthur scratches a little deeper, marking lines that will still be there in the morning.

“Say my name, darling,” Brelan murmurs there, breath stuttering and hot against Arthur’s skin, the words chased with a scrape of teeth. He takes Arthur’s hand away from his shoulder, lacing their fingers together and pressing Arthur’s knuckles back against the wall.

Arthur’s lips form the letter ‘A’, but he gets no further. _A, noir corset velu des mouches éclantes,_ Arthur thinks, _A_ , _black corset buzzing with flies,_ before he can no longer think at all.

Their pace is desperate now, hips jerking in time with the motions of their joined hands around their dicks. Brelan’s teeth are latched to Arthur’s jaw.

There is no more air in the room. It has all been pressed from Arthur’s lungs and his breath comes in shallow gasps.

Brelan pulls his mouth away from Arthur’s jaw for long enough to curl his tongue against the shell of Arthur’s ear and repeat his instruction, in French this time.

“Appelle mon nom, chéri,” Brelan breathes, the lilting sound of each word licking beneath Arthur’s skin and the room starts to shudder, collapsing in on them like a broken dream. Obedient, Arthur gasps out his own name, _Arthur, Arthur,_ again and again, his weight crumpling in Brelan’s arms and they sink down together, bodies dragging against the wall.

There is no kick. Arthur stays awake.

They slump against one another, recovering. Arthur does not move until the shudders have eased from his muscles and his mind has begun to sharpen in the cool air of the dark apartment and he realises that he has no need to stay.

“Mon cœur,” Brelan says when Arthur begins to pull his shirt back over his shoulders, pawing at him, mouthing the endearment against Arthur’s throat and pressing trails of imploring kisses there. “Stay the night?”

“No.”

Arthur’s reply is curt. Whatever information Brelan might want from him, Arthur is not going to give him further opportunity to take it. He tucks himself away and fastens his trousers, which are most likely ruined. He shakes off Brelan’s grip when it closes around his wrist.

“Can I call you?” Brelan tries.

“I’m leaving town,” Arthur says and Brelan’s grasp tightens against his hip, bruising.

For a moment Arthur thinks that they might have a problem on their hands. He curls his fingers into fists, ready to use them.

But then Brelan’s hold loosens. He lifts his hands, still warm and slick, to Arthur’s face, cradling the dull ache of the bite marks on Arthur’s jaw. He presses a kiss to each of Arthur’s cheeks, the French way.

“In that case, thanks for the memories, love,” Brelan says in an accent which is suddenly, incongruously English. “It’s been swell.”

Arthur shrugs him away, unnerved by the change. He stands up.

“No,” Arthur says, “thank you.”

Arthur closes the door behind him as he goes, leaving Brelan still picking himself up from the ground.

Back in his own hotel room, Arthur rolls his die three times.

It lands the same on every toss.

 

* * * * * *

 

In the morning, there is an ugly bruise on Arthur’s jaw.

He swears at his reflection in the mirror, turning his head to better examine the mark. It looks as though somebody has caught him off-guard with an uppercut. If Dom asks, Arthur decides, he will say exactly this. He will say that somebody punched him.

Dom won’t ask.

Arthur takes a taxi to Miles’s apartment, where Dom is staying. Mal is waiting for him there, in the kitchen.

She kisses his cheeks.

“Arthur,” she says, right away pressing a teasing fingertip against the mark on his chin, “but what is this?”

When Arthur doesn’t answer, Mal looks at him, equal parts disapproving and delighted.

“This is what happens when I let you out of my sight,” she says. “Other people get their hands on you.”

She pours coffee for him.

“Dom does not take care of you,” she adds, handing him the steaming mug. Arthur sets it down on the counter behind him. The kitchen is bright and warm, so homey with its white cabinets and glossy floorboards. Arthur slides his hands into his pockets.

“How are you today?” he asks.

Mal rubs a hand over her rounded stomach and stares past him, out of the kitchen window at the clouds overhanging the rooftops.

“Don’t ask about me. I am bored of me. All I have is my own company all day,” she says. “Talk to me of work. Ask about our forger.”

It is a last attempt to save the doomed job. Dom’s idea: bring in a forger to impersonate the mark’s college mentor.

They rarely work with forgers. Arthur’s list of contacts is limited. Mal forges very passably and can usually manage any minor forgery work they require, so they never need to call anyone else in. But the pregnancy means that it is not currently safe for Mal to be exposed to Somnacin, so they don’t have much of a choice in the matter. 

This meeting is supposed to be a chance for Arthur to vet the new forger, whom Dom is thinking of hiring on Mal’s recommendation.

“Tell me about the forger,” Arthur says, making it clear that he is asking only for Mal’s benefit. She smiles at the indulgence and eases herself down into the chair which Arthur pulls out for her. He brings his coffee and sits beside her at the table.

“He is new to all this. But he is already the best,” Mal says, reaching out to brush away one of her dark hairs, which is clinging to Arthur’s shirt cuff. “He is better than me. He is an old friend. I met him when I was living in London.”

“Will I like him?” Arthur asks, half-teasing, raising an eyebrow and Mal looks at him sternly.

“Arthur, you must give him a chance,” she says. “In order to forge well in dreams, you must first be able to forge well outside of dreams. This he can do. He is careful with details. You will appreciate his work.”

“But will I like him?”

Mal folds her arms on the table, leans forward.

“When I first spoke to him about working with us, I warned him that you were the one he had to impress. Not Dom.”

Mal pauses for a moment, twisting her wedding ring back and forth on her finger, watching the way that the light is fractured through the stone. Arthur watches too. He sips his coffee.

“He asked a lot of things about you,” Mal says, looking up.

“And what did you tell him?” Arthur says.

“Everything he asked,” Mal replies. Then she smiles. “I wanted to give him a fighting chance.”

Arthur is prevented from being outraged by this by the sound of the front door opening and closing, the sound of Dom’s voice in the hall.

He stands up when Dom enters, brisk and buoyant, tossing his keys onto the kitchen counter. There is a man following behind Dom. He is wearing a hideous green shirt beneath a tweed jacket which does nothing to conceal the broad set of his muscular shoulders. His expression seems to fall into a natural smirk as its neutral position. There is stubble on his jaw. In the daylight and without the glasses, Arthur thinks that the forger’s eyes are probably closer to blue than to grey.

Arthur is not quite surprised enough at seeing him again.

“Arthur,” Dom says, a little too cheerfully, and Arthur can tell that Dom has already made up his mind about this man. His sunny expression is warning Arthur to stop even before Arthur has gotten started.

“This is Mr. Eames,” Dom says.

When Eames steps forwards, grinning from ear to ear and offers his hand to shake, Arthur does not take it, because they already did this part.

“Pleasure to meet you,” Eames says, his eyes gleaming.

When Arthur does not move, Eames tries to take his hand anyway, bending to kiss it. Arthur jerks away before Eames’s lips can touch him. 

“Motherfucker,” Arthur says. 

Mal’s head snaps round to stare at him, scandalised.

“Arthur!” she scolds, but Arthur will not apologise.

Eames pulls back his hand, still grinning wide. He turns to Dom.

“You’re right, mate. He’s charming.”

Dom does not share Eames’s grin. He steps forwards and takes Arthur by the arm, although the look on his face would be more suited to somebody taking a wayward child by the ear.

“Excuse us a moment,” Dom says.

“Mal, will you please fix Eames some coffee?” he adds.

“Of course,” Mal says, pressing her palms to the table to heave herself up from her chair. Eames is moving quickly to help her, meeting Arthur’s heated stare out of the corner of his eye, as Dom propels Arthur towards the door. Arthur considers digging in his heels and pushing Dom away from him, so that he can march back over there and punch Eames in the face, but he does not.

Outside in the hall, Dom lets go of his arm and glares at him. _You have to stop_. Arthur can read it all over Dom’s face. He does not even have to say it.

“What’s this shit?” Dom asks.

Arthur sets his jaw and glares off down the hallway. The doors to all the rooms are closed, leaving the walkway shadowed. The darkness makes the walls seem to stretch. The hall looks so much longer than it actually is.

 _Il a deux trous rouges au côté droit_ , Arthur thinks. 

“What happened to your face?” Dom asks, quietly, a little closer to Arthur than he was before.

Arthur sucks a sharp breath in through his teeth. He turns back to Dom.

“Hire him,” he says briskly. Dom blinks at him in surprise.

“I’m sorry?”

“Hire him,” Arthur repeats. “He seems good.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from a poem by Paul Verlaine, ‘Il faut, voyez-vous...’ I have also referenced numerous poems by Arthur Rimbaud, ‘Le Dormeur du Val’, ‘Ophélie’, ‘Ma Bohème (Fantaisie)’ and ‘Voyelles’.


End file.
